


dream in color

by sharkfish



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels Are Known, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Angel Dean Winchester, Grooming, Human Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, Lonely Dean Winchester, M/M, Masseur Castiel, Touch-Starved Dean Winchester, Wing Grooming, Wing Kink, Wing Oil, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 00:06:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15569328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkfish/pseuds/sharkfish
Summary: The last time anyone did this for him, Dean was young enough that there was no component of lust. Oil didn’t soak his feathers or drip down his ribs then, there was no discomfort from his hard cock trapped in his jeans. Grooming can be an innocent affection, but it can also bemore.Cas is a professional, and Dean is a fucking creep.





	dream in color

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jemariel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jemariel/gifts).



> thanks to [jemariel](http://jemariel.tumblr.com) and [suckerfordeansfreckles](http://suckerfordeansfreckles.tumblr.com)

There’s nothing to freak out about. 

Cas is a professional — he’s probably seen everything. His whole business is based on servicing people who are too pathetic to find anyone else. Maybe he’ll go home and laugh about what a mess Dean has let himself become, but at least Dean will feel better. 

Dean sits in his parked car, staring at the unassuming blue door. There’s some kind of ivy tangled around the spindles of the porch railing. It’s a cute place, somewhere you can run a business out of, not a ramshackle fourplex like Dean’s. 

An angel in a business suit walks out, smiling, and climbs into a Mercedes. 

There’s nothing to freak out about. 

Dean takes a deep breath and gets out of the car. 

There’s a small sign on the front door that says  _ Please come in,  _ but Dean knocks anyway. After a moment, a man opens it. He’s definitely human, though his eyes are as bright as any angel’s and the whole house smells like wing oil.

“Dean?” the man says, stepping back and ushering Dean inside. 

“Yeah, that’s me,” Dean says. “Sorry, I’m early.” 

“Castiel Milton,” the guy says, holding out his hand. “Nice to meet you.” 

Dean shakes his hand without conscious thought and says, “That’s an angel name.” 

“My parents had an interesting sense of humor.” 

Dean snorts and follows Cas into an adjoining room. There’s soft lighting, photos of landscapes and plans and sky on the wall, a massage table in the center of the room. 

“I’d like to play music that you’ll enjoy. You can connect your phone to the speaker or I’ll find a playlist on mine if you’d rather.” 

Dean is glad he can fiddle with his phone while Cas washes his hands at a sink Dean hadn’t noticed. The music starts, and Cas flashes Dean a smile. “Good choice. I need you to take your shirt and shoes off at the very least, but the rest is up to you — whatever makes you the most comfortable, and sit on the table, please.” 

Dean fumbles out of his boots and leaves his shirt in a balled-up mess on top of them, sits on the table facing away from Cas. 

Dean’s been fidgeting in discomfort for  _ weeks,  _ but it’s gotten unbearable the last few days, and he wiggles his shoulders back and forth like he can soothe the itch between his shoulder blades. 

“When you’re ready,” Cas says, softly, from right behind Dean. 

“Ok, just — to warn you. They’re really fucked up. I was injured, and then — there isn’t anyone. So. I’m gross.” 

“May I touch you?” 

Dean blinks. “Yeah?” 

His wings are still somewhere in a thinny, waiting for a subtle opening between worlds, but Cas reaches and strokes his fingertips through the hair on the back of Dean’s head, runs his hands over the top of Dean’s shoulders. 

“I’m here to help,” Cas says. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. Has it started hurting?” 

“Yeah, since yesterday,” Dean says, tipping his head forward for Cas to rub his finger tips in circles on the back of Dean’s neck. 

“It’s been quite a while since your wings were properly groomed then.” 

Dean blushes red-hot. “Sorry.” 

Cas laughs, but it’s quiet and soothing like his touch. “You’re the one hurting.” 

“Ok, um. Step back.” 

Dean looks over his shoulder to make sure Cas is an ok distance away, then back forward again so he won’t have to see Cas’s expression when he manifests. Dean takes a deep breath, twitches his nose, and the air sparks like just before a firecracker takes flight, and then the room fills with feathers. 

Cas gasps and Dean’s wings tuck tight and close against his back while he tries to focus enough to get rid of them again. 

“Dean,” Cas says, almost reverently, his hand running slowly down the center of Dean’s spine, skimming past where Dean would leak oil to have hands on him, but not touching his feathers at all. 

“Sorry,” Dean says. 

“Shh,” Cas says, his hand in Dean’s hair again, petting in a way that Dean would make a crack about if it weren’t so nice. Dean isn’t sure the last time he was touched other than a handshake. “I don’t want to be inappropriate, but your wings are beautiful. I’ve never seen them this color.” 

Dean pulls his wings tighter against his back and tells himself to stop being such a goddamn baby. “Yeah. ‘m special, I guess.” 

“You are,” Cas says. “Can I touch them?” 

“That’s what I’m here for, ain’t it?” 

“Stretch out, please,” Cas says. 

Dean squeezes the edge of the table as he slowly stretches his wings out. They’re bigger than most, reaching far past where his arms can reach to each side.

Cas runs his hands, a light tickle-touch, from where Dean’s wings grow out of his back to the tall, delicate arch and down to where bone ends and what passes for flight feathers brush close to the floor. “If I may ask, was your injury treated by a doctor?” 

“No,” Dean says, and doesn’t offer anything else. 

Cas starts to comb his fingers lightly through Dean’s feathers and says, “Would you prefer I use synthetic oil?” 

“Um. Whatever you usually do.” 

“Because of your injury, you may experience some discomfort,” Cas says, “but please let me know if there’s any pain.” 

Dean nods, hyperfocused on Cas’s hands, gently tugging here and there to pull out loose and broken feathers. Dean thinks he would feel less weird if he could think of something to say, but instead his thoughts just spin in circles. It’s been a long time since anyone has seen his wings for any length of time — and far longer since anyone touched them — and he doesn’t like his failures on display. 

Cas hums along to a Creedence song as he finishes with the clearly damaged feathers. He touches between Dean’s shoulder blades, but Dean’s mostly dry because of nerves, so out comes the synthetic oil. It makes Dean’s nose itch. 

The real grooming starts now, Cas touching every feather to guide it into place, pulling the ones that don’t belong with a sharp jerk. Dean’s tender in places where he’s still healing, but he stays quiet, and soon enough Cas moves on to a different spot. 

“You may be more comfortable if you lay on the table,” Cas says. 

Dean blinks back from wherever he was drifting and re-situates, his wings draping to the floor on either side. 

Cas knees next to Dean to get at the lowest parts of his left wing. Dean watches him with a lazy smile that Cas is concentrating too hard to see. 

And, Dean realizes with a blush, his own oil is starting to pool in the dip of his spine. Cas glances up — he can smell it, most likely, Dean’s dark citrus scent — and Dean looks away. 

Cas stands, adjusts a final feather near the top of Dean’s wing, and then circles around the table to the other one. Dean turns his head to be able to see Cas. 

Cas starts to reach for Dean’s oil glands, then pauses. “May I?” 

“Yeah.” 

Cas doesn’t comment when he finds Dean’s glands swollen and dripping. Dean hopes it doesn’t make him look like a creep, but then Cas starts working the oil through Dean’s feathers and it feels too good for him to care. 

Dean closes his eyes and, for the first time in what feels like years, lets the tension bleed from his muscles. Cas hums along to the music, sings softly under his breath every now and then. This wing seems to be taking longer than the other, but Dean’s not complaining. He wonders how long Cas’s hands will smell like oranges after this. 

Dean reminds himself, drowsily, that Cas is a professional. 

“How do you feel?” Cas says. “I had to pull a lot of feathers; I’m sorry.” 

“Mm,” Dean says, blinking his eyes open slowly. “‘s ok.” 

Cas smiles, eyes crinkling adorably, and scritches along the top of Dean’s wing. “You feel good, don’t you?” 

The last time anyone did this for him, Dean was young enough that there was no component of lust. Oil didn’t soak his feathers or drip down his ribs then, there was no discomfort from his hard cock trapped in his jeans. Grooming can be an innocent affection, but it can also be  _ more. _

Cas is a professional, and Dean is a fucking creep. 

Suddenly Dean is fully aware, and he jerks his wings close against his back. “Shit. Fuck. I’m sorry.” 

Cas tilts his head, more bird-like than any angel. “Did I miss something, or are you apologizing for enjoying yourself?” 

“No, I mean — that’s what you’re —” Dean closes his eyes for a moment, takes a careful breath, wills his dick to fuck off until he’s at home. Alone. “I didn’t mean to be the gross guy with a boner at the groomer’s.” 

Cas snorts. “You’re hardly the first, but you’re not gross. It’s normal. Grooming is intimate; it would be strange if you didn’t have a physiological reaction.” 

Dean blushes, but manages to focus through the embarrassment. His nose twitches, and then his wings are gone, leaving the air sparking static. He realizes this is worse, though, because he can feel the cool air brushing across his oil-slick back, and surely Cas can see the sheen of it, even in the low light. 

“Stay there,” Cas says. “I’ll clean you up.” 

Dean waits, already feeling the tension seep back into his shoulders, while Cas grabs a towel and wipes his back clean. Cas washes his hands afterward, and of course he has scent-erasing soap. No one will know he touched Dean at all. 

Dean pulls on his shirt and then his boots without looking at Cas. Cas asks him how he’ll be paying and Dean hands over his card, signs a tablet with his finger, follows Cas back to the front door without meeting his eyes. 

“Dean,” Cas says, holding on to his hand a little too long during a polite goodbye. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed or ashamed of. I hope you’ll visit again.” 

 

Dean avoids thinking about it — other than the physical relief of wings in good repair — until he’s settled in bed, a book pulled up on his phone. Things are getting good with Kvothe and the Chronicler, but he only makes it a couple pages before he’s thinking about Cas’s nimble fingers working through his feathers. 

Dean imagines, suddenly and viscerally, the way Cas’s hands would clench in Dean’s wings when Dean fucks him. Cas’s hands, slick with oil and scrabbling at Dean’s back to pull him closer. 

The first person Dean slept with asked to see his wings, and she laughed — not unkindly — at his nose twitch, then — less kindly — told him he looked like a bird and should put them away. The sex had been ok, but she blew him off the next day at school, and people started talking. Pigeon, they called him, though his wings were an entirely different color. 

Dean learned to play it like a mystery, like he doesn’t bring his wings out for just anyone. No wings before mating. 

But Cas saw and touched Dean’s wings and had nice words to say and didn’t flinch from the burned raw parts. Cas probably kisses in the same slow sensual way he touches. 

At that thought, Dean gives up on the book and runs his hand down his stomach instead, imagining his and Cas’s cocks pressed together, hands slippery with oil wrapped around them, stroking while they gasp and moan into each other’s mouths between kisses. 

Dean pinches each of his nipples until they pebble in the cool air. It makes his dick twitch, and he keeps at it with one hand while the other starts to pull on his cock, vague flashes of touch, sound, taste, sensation floating through his mind.

Maybe Cas is different in bed then he is at work. Maybe he’ll shove Dean face-first into the bed and fuck him so hard he sees stars. Maybe —  _ oh, god —  _ Cas would grab the base of Dean’s wings and use the leverage to jerk Dean back onto his cock on every thrust. 

Dean’s brain zooms on that image and stays there while he strokes himself, a little to dry but too desperate to pause to do anything about it.

Cas would ask so politely, hot against Dean’s ear,  _ Dean, can I fuck you?  _ Or maybe,  _ Dean, I need your cock in me.  _

Dean comes hard enough that the lights flicker, like an idiot twelve year old just learning about jerking off. Jesus. 

Dean falls asleep quickly, and wakes up in the morning on his stomach, wings sprawled across the bed. Dean is surprised to see that the remaining feathers look mostly healthy, as long as he ignores the places where scar tissue shows through. They don’t itch and ache anymore, and for the first time in years he lets them trail behind him, feathers brushing the tile floor, as he goes through his morning routine.

 

Angels with family are always grooming each other, just every-day comforting touches, but people who are lonely — or the kind of people who pay for regular massages — usually see a groomer every month or so. 

Dean waits six weeks, and he’s not even particularly uncomfortable, but he’s started noticing every time people touch each other in front of him in public. He’s started noticing every time someone could touch him but doesn’t. He’s spent more time with his wings, which is to say that he jerks off with them out now, fingers carded through and tugging at his feathers. 

Dean knocks at the front door, despite the sign, again, but a woman answers. She’s an angel, her eyes almost golden, hair thick and red and shining. 

“Are you Dean?” she says, stepping back from the door. 

“Oh. Yeah. That’s me.” 

“I’m Lydia.” 

Dean shakes her hand and tries to smile. Of course Cas has a gorgeous angel girlfriend, and her wings are probably the right color. At least Cas can’t see how pretty her grace is compared to Dean’s flickering smoke. 

“Cas will be out in a minute,” Lydia says. “It’s nice to meet you. Maybe I’ll see you around.” 

Dean watches her walk out, and startles when Cas enters the room. “Hello, Dean.” 

“Hey. Um, is there some kind of groomer-client privilege?” 

“There’s no legal requirement, but from an ethical standpoint, I would say so.” 

“Ok,” Dean says. “Cool.” 

“Can I get you something to drink? Water, soda, beer?” 

“I didn’t get beer last time.” 

“It’s a perk for returning customers.” 

Dean laughs, and Cas smiles like he’s surprised and delighted. “I’ll take a beer.” 

“Go get settled and I’ll grab them.” 

Cas squeezes Dean’s shoulder before he disappears down the hall. Dean goes into the private room, pulling the door shut behind him, and pulls off his boots and shirt. He’s not sure if he should bring his wings out yet so he just sits on the table and fidgets. 

Cas hands over a beer, cap already removed, and offers his own forward for a cheers. They clink bottles and share a smile that feels too casual. Dean says, “You always drink with clients?” 

“Rarely,” Cas says. 

“Am I your most special angel?” Dean doesn’t know where he’s finding the courage to flirt, but he’s not sure how to stop himself, either, even though he feels like an asshole. But Cas keeps smiling. 

“Yes, I would say so.” Cas takes another sip, then sets his beer on the counter and washes his hands. “Would you like to start some music?” 

“Oh yeah,” Dean says, and starts up a playlist. It’s a complete coincidence, but Bad Company starts crooning about golden dreams and Dean hopes his blush can’t be seen in the soft light. 

“Would you like to lay down?” Cas says, standing directly behind Dean, the smell of synthetic oil ugly in the room. “Face down, please.”

Dean lays down, and gives a muffled consent when Cas says, “May I touch you?” 

Cas starts on Dean’s neck, slowly working out tension with his thumbs, then continues down Dean’s body. By the time he’s kneading at the small of Dean’s back, Dean is relaxed and blissful, not sure that even having his wings touched is better than this. 

Cas smoothes his hands slowly up Dean’s back to squeeze the top of his shoulders and says, quietly, “Wings?” 

Dean turns his head so he can see Cas, because apparently he’s a masochist. “Step back.” 

Cas moves to the corner of the room. Dean twitches his nose and his wings crack through worlds and half-flap before Dean gets control of them. Cas laughs, his hand on Dean’s hip. “Excited, are we?” 

Dean blushes and lies. “No.” 

Cas guides one of Dean’s wings to stretch wide, gently touching here and there. He circles the table and Dean’s other wing gets the same quick inspection. “You’re lovely,” Cas says, “and you look healthy.” 

“Thanks, I guess,” Dean says. “I mean, you did it.” 

“But you haven’t been keeping them tucked away all the time. That helps.” 

“What?” 

Cas runs his hand over the curve of Dean’s wing. “It helps to let them… breathe, sometimes. Air out the dust bunnies.” 

Dean doesn’t know what to say, because he feels like an idiot for not knowing this, for locking his ugliness away in another dimension as often as possible and never considering that it could be making him uglier. 

Cas starts to pull loose feathers, singing softly along with Supertramp. There aren’t many this time, and before long Cas is working his fingers through Dean’s wings, feather by feather. Like it’s nothing — like there’s no reason for Dean to be burning red with shame again — Cas slides his hands up Dean’s back to wet his palms with oil before continuing. 

Dean realizes really quickly that the reason you don’t touch yourself fantasizing about the groomer while pulling on your own feathers is because now, with the hot groomer touching him, he can’t stop fantasizing. Oil is dripping down his ribs, wetting the towel underneath him, and his cock is leaking against the rough cotton of his boxers. 

“Do you feel good?” Cas murmurs, and his hand is between Dean’s wings again. The touch isn’t particularly indecent, as far as touches go in this type of situation, but Dean still shivers when Cas’s fingers brush past his oil glands. 

Dean swallows. “Yeah.” 

Cas gives him a small, knowing smile, and the closer he gets to finishing the first wing, the more of a perfectionist he becomes. Dean’s eyes blink closed for a long time, and when he opens them, Cas is cross-legged on the floor with the end of Dean’s wing across his lap, petting Dean’s feathers more than fixing them. 

Cas circles to the other table and starts to reach for the center of Dean’s back. “Don’t,” Dean chokes out. 

Cas frowns. “Did I hurt you? Are you all right?” 

“No, I’m — shit. I’m sorry.” 

“Are you sorry because you’re aroused?” 

Dean blushes and looks away. 

“Dean,” Cas says, smiling again, stroking his fingers through Dean’s hair. Oil is a pain in the ass to get out, but Dean’s not complaining. “It’s normal. I don’t mind.” 

“I’m — it’s not like I expected a happy ending — “

Cas arches an eyebrow and, slowly enough that Dean can tell him not to, runs his hand through Dean’s feathers and to the center of his back. Dean cringes, but Cas smiles, and then presses gently in just the right way on one of Dean’s oil glands and Dean  _ whines  _ and then immediately hates himself. 

Cas bends over, breath hot on Dean’s ear, and whispers, “I’ve never offered before, but would you like a happy ending?” 

Dean tries to catch the tornadoes of his breath and thoughts. “What about your girlfriend?” 

Cas stands up straight, frowning. “I don’t have a girlfriend. No special friend of any gender.” 

“Oh,” Dean says. 

“Lydia is a lesbian.” 

“Oh,” Dean says again. 

“Does that change your answer?” 

Cas’s hand is still on Dean’s back, and it’s hard to focus on anything else. “Touch me,” Dean says, voice breaking. 

“Can I sit across your legs?” 

Dean’s wings half-flap and something on the counter falls over. “Sorry,” Dean says, and Cas laughs as he climbs up onto the table to sit across Dean’s thighs. Cas becomes just a heavy weight over Dean’s legs and an insistent touch on his lower back, easing him back into floating bliss. 

Cas’s hands work progressively upwards until he’s curling his fingers in the feathers at the base of Dean’s wings and tugging gently. Dean whimpers, and then whimpers again when Cas kisses the dip at the small of Dean’s back. Cas’s hands press into Dean’s feathers again, pushing them flatter to expose the tender skin between them, approaching with gentle kisses and nuzzles. 

Dean is distinctly aware when Cas licks away the first drip of oil slipping down Dean’s back. “Cas,” Dean whispers, and then his whole body is strung tight when Cas’s mouth brushes the center of his spine. 

Dean can imagine what Cas looks like right now, chin and mouth shiny with oil, and it makes his heart pound. “Tell me if you don’t like this,” Cas says, and then he grazes his teeth, so slowly, over one of Dean’s oil glands. 

Dean stops breathing and his wings flap, almost violently, but instead of being afraid like a normal person, Cas laughs and does it again. Dean shifts under Cas’s weight, clenches his hands on the legs of the table underneath him. 

Cas makes a noise like he  _ likes  _ the way Dean is dripping and trembling, wings moving restlessly, and when Dean arches his back in pleasure, he can feel Cas’s hardness pressed against his ass. Cas gasps and Dean moans and Cas does something with both his hands and his mouth that has Dean keening and coming in his jeans. The music stops and the speaker beeps as it reboots. 

“Did you come?” Cas says. 

“Don’t be smug about it,” Dean says, feeling too good to be embarrassed yet. “Can I, um…” Dean arches his back again, on purpose, to grind his ass into Cas’s cock. 

Cas presses his face into the side of Dean’s neck, smearing wetness, and says, voice low and rough, “Can you what?” 

“Can I — or can you — fuck me?” 

Cas breathes in shakily, holds it for a long moment before saying, “Do you like that?” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, reaching backwards to grab Cas’s denim-clad hip, trying to pull him closer. “I wanna ride you.” 

Cas swallows audibly. “Yes, but in the bedroom, and let me lock the door.” 

Cas climbs down and Dean rolls to his feet, wincing. “Bathroom?” 

“Down the hall to the left,” Cas says, with what must be a smirk. 

Dean blips his wings out on the way to the bathroom, as drops of oil slip and slide down his back, dampening the top of his jeans. Dean does what he can to clean up the mess in his boxers, but ends up taking everything off, balling his boxers up, and putting his jeans back on commando. Not that there’s any point to that, considering they’re coming off again soon. 

Dean meets Cas in the bedroom, and Cas laughs and takes the boxers out of Dean’s hand and drops them on the floor. “Where are your wings?” 

Dean shrugs. 

“You’re so embarrassed of a part of yourself that’s so beautiful,” Cas says, stepping closer to cup Dean’s jaw in his palm. He must’ve used the scent-erasing soap because Dean can’t smell himself on Cas’s hand. 

Dean’s nose twitches and his wings are back, too big in the small room. “They look better, thanks to you.” 

Cas steps closer and kisses Dean. 

Cas may have used soap on his hands, but obviously not on his face, because he smells and tastes like Dean. Dean’s wings stretch and pull back tight against his back, and Cas grabs the arch of one of Dean’s wings and uses it to pull him closer until their bodies are pressed together. 

Dean’s not going to get hard again already, but the touch is still like lightning and he moans into Cas’s mouth. He squeezes Cas’s hips and urges him back towards the bed without breaking the kiss. “Fuck,” Dean says, as Cas falls into bed, his shirt riding up to show hip bones that could bruise the inside of Dean’s thighs.

Cas sits back up to pull off his shirt, and then grabs Dean’s ass, pulling him between Cas’s knees to run the tip of his tongue in a slow circle around Dean’s nipple. Dean’s hand grabs at Cas’s hair and Cas bites, making a fresh rush of oil slip and slide down his back. 

Cas’s hands leave Dean’s ass and run upwards until he can card his fingers through Dean’s soaked feathers. Grace sizzles and burns deliciously through Dean’s veins. 

Cas doesn’t seem inclined to stop touching long enough to get their pants off, and his fingers would be too slippery to work the buttons anyway, so Dean gets out of his own jeans first, then pushes Cas flat on his back with a hand to the center of the chest. Flaring grace makes Dean preternaturally strong, and the darkness of Cas’s eyes makes it clear he’s into it. 

Cas isn’t wearing underwear, either, and his cock is dark and needing. Dean wants the heaviness of it in his hand, in his mouth, spreading him open. 

“Condom and lube in the drawer,” Cas says, and Dean rolls his eyes. 

“I’m an angel, and —” Dean grabs Cas’s arm and guides his hand between Dean’s wings. 

Cas closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He scoops oil into his hand — it’s not difficult, Dean is going to make a mess of both of them and the bed before this is over — and opens his eyes while he strokes it onto his cock. 

Dean uses his wings for balance as he moves, letting Cas guide his cock to Dean’s hole. Cas can’t decide where to look, eyes darting all over Dean’s body — wings, eyes, mouth, the place where Dean is slowly sinking down on his cock — and Dean’s grace burns so bright he’s sure even Cas must be able to see it.

Cas acts like he feels it, at least, his hands tightening almost painfully around Dean’s hips, saying his name brokenly. Dean can feel Cas’s hipbones against his thighs as he settles into Cas’s lap. 

“Christ,” Dean says, and grabs Cas’s shoulders to make him sit up and accept Dean’s kiss. Dean starts rolling his hips, wings high and feathers flaring, and Cas moans into his mouth. 

Cas’s hands slide back into Dean’s dripping feathers and he says against Dean’s lips, voice rough, “You’re so  _ wet.”  _

Dean blushes and twitches his nose and Cas says, “No, no, no,” gripping tighter. “You’re incredible. I like making you feel good.” 

Cas’s hands move to the middle of Dean’s back, circling where Dean’s dripping still, even in his embarrassment, and then he grabs the base of Dean’s wings and guides him into a slow grind, just a little deeper. Dean’s hard now, cock pressed between their stomachs, and it’s better than he imagined, the little gasps Cas makes, the smell of Dean thick in the air, Cas’s fingers clenched and pulling at his wings. 

“Come in me,” Dean says when Cas’s kisses start to get harsher, his touch rougher. 

“You first,” Cas says, and he scrapes his nails over Dean’s oil glands. Dean cries out and comes hard between them, but manages to keep riding Cas through it, grace humming and humming, until Cas pulls him down onto his cock and pulses inside him. 

Dean’s whole body trembles, down to his flight feathers lax on the floor, and Cas kisses him gently in between panting breaths. Cas says, “Do you feel good?”

“God, yeah. That was — holy fuck.” 

Cas puts his hand on Dean’s side like he’s going to help Dean climb out of his lap, but his hands are too slippery so it’s up to Dean to make his shaky limbs cooperate enough to collapse into the bed. 

Cas smiles down at Dean and then arranges himself tucked up against Dean’s side, one of Dean’s wings under him. “Is this ok?” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, having trouble breathing. This is nothing like the feeling of Cas pulling at sodden feathers, but the warm weight of Cas’s body against him is it’s own bliss. He’s never held someone in his wings before. 

“Oh shit, I’m making a mess,” Dean says, but Cas holds him down with an arm across Dean’s chest. 

“I’ll do laundry later. Right now we’re cuddling.” 

Dean laughs and runs his hand through Cas’s hair. “You’re a bossy fucker.”

“On occasion.” 

Dean turns his head and smiles into Cas’s hair, waiting for his heart to slow, for his grace to recede like a sickle moon. “So, um,” Dean says, quietly. “How did you start doing this?” 

“Sleeping with clients? This is the first time so I suppose… this is how I started doing it.” 

Dean rolls his eyes. “No, the grooming thing.” 

“Oh.” Cas nuzzles Dean’s cheek, kisses his jaw. “Lydia is my best friend, and there was a time when she didn’t have anyone else to help with her wings. I had just gotten my massage therapist license, and it seemed like a natural extension to offer a safe place for angels to have those needs met.” 

Dean curls his wing around Cas, tucking him closer, and Cas hums happily, his thigh draped over Dean’s. “I’m glad you’re not some kind of… fetishist.” 

Cas snorts. “I wouldn’t go that far. But no, I’m not an angel chaser.” 

“Oh? You gonna tell me about your other secret fetishes?” 

“Not until the third date.” 

Dean half-hopes that Cas can’t feel how hard he smiles. “You sound pretty sure I’ll take you on a first date.” 

“My mistake,” Cas says, and Dean can feel him smiling, too. “I have no reason to think that.” 

Dean wraps his other wing around them, too, cocooning them in a warm citrus-scented nest. Cas pets his hand through the feathers on the underside of Dean’s wing, just aimless affection. 

Dean says, “I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.” 

**Author's Note:**

> [reallyelegantsharkfish on tumblr](http://reallyelegantsharkfish.tumblr.com)
> 
> [rebloggable tumblr post](http://reallyelegantsharkfish.tumblr.com/post/176640954830/dream-in-color-on-ao3-wing-kink-feat-angel-dean)
> 
> I know you think this world is too dark to even dream in color,  
> but I’ve seen flowers bloom at midnight.  
> I’ve seen kites fly in gray skies  
> and they were real close to looking like the sunrise,  
> and sometime it takes the most wounded wings  
> the most broken things  
> to notice how strong the breeze is,  
> how precious the flight.  
>  _andrea gibson_


End file.
